Iástron

by James C. Dunn

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ANTAL JUSTUS UNFASTENED his black overcoat and lowered himself into a cubicle in a quiet corner of the boisterous bar. Two unsightly-looking men watched from nearby. Justus leered at them confidently. They recognised him, no doubt. Most people here did.

  He’d had enough of sitting inside the Flux. He couldn’t handle the guilt which bore down on him inside its close walls. It had only taken an hour’s gruelling walk through the desert to reach the capital, and it had given him time to think.

  Before the chance to order arose, a pretty waitress in a sandy-brown headscarf placed a bottle on the table in front of him. Being recognised had its rewards. Justus had been to the bar a few years ago, only now it was clear that every last scab on Rotavar’s freshly-hacked wound had descended on the district, doing much like they did on Manera. While ordinary people struggled to find a way off the world, criminals and opportunists could do nothing but take advantage. The worst thing was he knew it might have been him had everything on Manera gone to plan.

  The thirsting captain took a swig of the drink, raising his chin and exposing the veins in his neck as he forced his body to consent to the ice-cold brew. He continued to sit in his corner for some time, watching cruel-eyed passers-by and every so often knocking back another nip of the large bottle. Beneath the table his knife lay on his lap, his hand rested on the butt of the blaster he’d stolen from Dimal.

  Come on, he thought. Someone pick a fight. Anyone. Just give me an excuse to tear a head off.

  A scantily-clad group of women entered the bar and began dancing among the various tables on the other side of the room; Justus watched them carefully. The tiresomely vigorous music being played was in Rovaña: the principal language of Rotavar and a tongue of which Justus knew very little. The women looked innocent enough, but he’d learned the hard way that whatever they wanted they got . . . or took . . . or killed for.

  It was one of those times that his looks became useful. Pale beyond comparison and displaying long, unkempt, shoulder-length black hair meant most women were revolted by his appearance. For the most part he preferred it that way.

  ‘Poor excuse for a language,’ grunted a voice from nearby.

  Then again, he thought, being recognised also has its drawbacks . . .

  ‘Excuse me?’ Justus said to a hooded man, sat alone on the next table.

  ‘Rovaña,’ the man said with a voice deeper than a Crilshan cavern, referring to the descant currently sounding. ‘A poor copy of its old Russian derivation, don’t you think?’

  Unbelievable.

  ‘It hardly matters. I only speak languages that speak to me.’

  The man laughed and moved his seat closer. ‘I’m curious. Languages such as?’

  ‘The Common Tongue, of course. Money, my favourite. And death. Though the latter I’d rather not know.’

  He laughed loudly once again, and removed his hood to reveal a hairless head. Justus put him in his early fifties; he was wrapped up tightly in a dark cloak, and as well as lacking anything akin to eyebrows he bore an oddly oversized forehead.

  ‘You enjoying the drink?’ he asked.

  ‘You sent this over?’

  ‘Either you’re very stupid,’ he said, ‘or you’ve given up caring whether or not someone could lace your drink.’

  ‘Pick one,’ Justus said. ‘Then piss off.’

  But he didn’t.

  ‘Lesper,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘Constantine Lesper.’

  Justus regarded him silently, and didn’t move. ‘Listen, old man—’

  ‘Oh, but you don’t have to introduce yourself, Captain. Please, let me finish! Captain Antal Justus of the Crimson Flux. You’re notorious around these parts. You’d be royalty among thieves were you not envied and hated alike by these less successful felons.’

  ‘Everyone knows that,’ Justus said, unimpressed. ‘If that’s all you—’

  ‘Born on Earth, recruited to Earth Forces aged sixteen. Father: unknown. Mother: the late Lady Casandra—’

  ‘Okay, stop!’ he yelled, causing those nearby to stop what they were doing. The dancing women continued preying on drunken idiots. Who is this man? Unfolding his arms he leaned forward, right hand loosely grasping his dagger beneath the table. ‘You have my attention, Lesper. What is it you want?’

  Lesper bore his teeth in a disingenuous smile. ‘My boy, I don’t want anything from you. You can put the blade away. I do, however, want to offer you something.’

  ‘And what would that be?’

  Lesper grinned. ‘A life of thrills and threats. Purpose. Meaning. The chance of a thousand lifetimes.’

  * * *

  A shadow rolled through the hot and hostile streets of Kondogopas. Swift and silent, it vaulted stone walls and negotiated newly partitioning barriers like they were children’s playground toys. Antal Justus stopped to breathe, lifted the lip of his dark coat’s hood, and caught sight of the large, elevated buildings at the top of the hill before him.

  The young captain had journeyed to Rotavar some years ago, prior to meeting and later forming his crew on the Flux. But now he was here for an entirely different reason, under a set of circumstances he’d not envisaged in a hundred dreams. That’s if you could describe them as dreams. Nightmares would be a better word to adequately portray his nightly forays. He blocked out the images and focused on the task at hand.

  The steps of the government quarter were sheer and narrow, and he barely avoided a patrol of three armed Crilshans. With ease he clambered over a spiked, metal partition and set his sights on the high, terraced building ahead.

  ‘Go to the central government facility,’ the peculiar old man, Lesper, had told him earlier that night. ‘Make your way to the most heavily-guarded section of the prime minister’s building, and in his private office you’ll find what I want. You will obtain the item and bring it to me. Then—and only then—will we discuss your joining my organisation.’

  Smash! The window of Prime Minister Mokrikov’s office broke inward and Justus hopped stealthily within. He gazed around the enormous, high-ceilinged room, filled in its entirety with a sinister air of abandon. Dark patches of what he could only guess was blood stained the floor. He gave himself a moment to admire the stunning architecture, which in the dark appeared hauntingly magnificent. Not daring to turn on a light he then headed as instructed for the large, curved metal desk and began sifting through the papers on top.

  It won’t be here, he thought. Not here. Not so exposed.

  He fought to keep his eyes open as he rummaged around, constantly checking for signs he’d been discovered. A thin beam of light crossed beneath the office door, and he wondered whether anyone was outside.

  ‘Don’t move.’

  He froze.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked a man with a voice both tight and stern.

  Noting the drawl in his tone, Justus answered, ‘You’re no Crilshan.’

  The man stepped out of the shadows. ‘Neither are you.’

  Turning, Justus leaned casually against the desk with a grin. ‘Well detected.’

  ‘What do you want?’ he demanded, aiming an advanced blaster. Obviously a Rotavarian, he wore the emerald coat and armour of the Defence Force.

  ‘Well that depends—’

  ‘Whoa, wait!’ he said. ‘I know you. Antal Justus!’

  ‘Once more, well detected.’

  ‘Ha! You’re wanted around these systems for piracy, theft, and hell-knows-what-else!’

  ‘Tried, but never convicted!’ Justus corrected. ‘I never gave them chance. You steal that weapon from a Crilshan?’

  He nodded. ‘The one lay dead outside. His companions will be with us any moment. Now what do you want, Captain?’

  ‘Did the late Prime Minister have a safe in here by any chance?’ Justus peered about the room for a hint of both an undisclosed hiding place and a means of escape—as he knew it would surely come to it.`

  ‘No,’ the Rotavarian replied. ‘What a
re you doing here?’

  ‘I’m betting he did. Where is it?’

  ‘I asked first.’

  Justus hummed provokingly. ‘Tick tock, tick tock! They’re on their way, old boy.’ He followed the man’s eyes as they moved unknowingly to the right-hand side of the desk. ‘Very good!’ He jumped up and sprang to the side the writing table, touching around and eventually prising the surface away to reveal an intricately-designed safe box.

  The Rotavarian edged closer to catch a glimpse of what Justus had exposed. ‘You’ll never get in,’ he said, almost leaning over the Captain’s shoulder.

  ‘Wanna’ bet?’

  ‘I’d rather just shoot you.’

  Justus grinned, attempting to remember the numbers Lesper had provided him. ‘Three, seven . . . four . . . five, orant . . . tarau,’ he recalled in excitement, ‘redanta, thirteen, and actha!’ The box flew open and Justus’ head shot back, making crushing contact and breaking the Rotavarian’s nose.

  ‘Aggghhh! Blya! Blya!’ he said, dropping the blaster and clutching his bloody face in agony. Justus lurched in reverse, knocking him onto his back beneath the shattered window; leaning down to pick up the fallen weapon, he turned to face him.

  ‘Apologies,’ Justus said, heaving his shoulders, ‘but I need what’s in here.’ He leaned back in and continued to rummage through, lifting items out and throwing them away behind him. Before long he found what Lesper had wanted, and lifted up a silver-backed book, the Rotavarian ‘R’ insignia present upon the cover.

  ‘Mokrikov’s diary!’ the bloody-nosed man gasped.

  ‘You were wanting this yourself?’ Justus perceived the all-too-familiar look of a man yearning for something just out of his grasp.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll take that no to mean a yes. And I’ll reply to that yes with a goodbye. Apologies once more—’

  The unexpected clatter of movement outside the room caused them both to lock eyes in sudden panic. The shifting light beneath the door revealed they had in fact been found.

  Perfect.

  Though momentarily dismayed, Justus’ shocked grimace twisted into a grin. Pulling out of his pocket a small disk, he threw it towards the large office doors, and then turned to fling the soldier’s blaster out of the broken window. He pulled himself on top of the prime minister’s desk, kicking away books and paperweights. As he did, however, a small fragment of paper fell from the silver diary, drifted towards the window. The Rotavarian reached out a hand and caught it.

  ‘What does it say?’ Justus asked in a second of panic.

  The man looked up.

  The bulky doors of the office fell inward with a flattening thud, and several men entered the room, rifles aimed at Justus, who still stood on the desk. He looked to the ceiling. Or, rather, the pane of glass buried within it.

  ‘Rotavaraan!’ he shouted, raising his arms to the Crilshans, ‘or however you pronounce it!’ He reached for his belt, took out his blaster. ‘It is with deep regret that I must now leave this planet in your impeccable keeping!’ He looked across at the Rotavarian and smiled once more, then nodded. The Rotavarian understood and threw himself down, hands covering his head. With one hand Justus pointed his blaster at the ceiling, clicked its function-shift, and simultaneously brought the other to his belt. ‘Goodbye chaps!’

  The ground shook. All went silent, and smoke filled the room, and a blinding light. The disc device he’d thrown became trapped under the door and, upon detonation, threw it back outside, along with several screeching bodies.

  The subsequent seconds unfolded with what Justus had always termed ‘stubborn luck,’ and his well-aimed wire shot took him from the smoke-filled room and out into the open air. There he laughed and whooped, warm wind in his hair, as he began to race across the winding and twisting rooftops of the prime ministerial offices. If it hadn’t been for the skylight—and Dimal’s brilliantly borrowed blaster—he doubted he’d have made it out of that room alive.

  He jumped, journal in hand, across a wide passage, avoiding a narrow pitfall, before glancing back. Upon spotting the Rotavarian leap across the roof behind him, his long emerald overcoat flailing in the strong wind, Justus almost fell from the brink.

  ‘Not tonight!’

  He looked back again to see his determined rival swiftly catching up. Justus took out another disc-grenade and threw it behind, but gaped in dismay and frustration as the Rotavarian kicked it aside. The disc flew over the edge and a portion of the building exploded beneath them.

  The roof crumbled away, tiles sliding beneath his feet—

  He jumped a wide split in the slate and skidded on his knees and elbows, making sure not to let go of the diary. Finding his feet he looked back a third time to see the nuisance-of-a-man still taking chase. Justus’ eyes widened, however, when he realised they weren’t alone. Several Crilshans had now joined the pursuit.

  ‘Blast!’ he shouted as a hail of red-glowing bullets flew past his ear. He jumped off the roof onto a lower ledge, hoping to avoid the gunfire, but he slipped on arrival and collapsed onto his back, crying, ‘Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!’

  A body landed beside him, and a voice said, ‘I’ll take that!’ Almost simultaneously he felt a sharp kick to his face and the book was prised from his hands.

  ‘Shit!’

  He reached out and gripped the man’s leg, pulling him to the floor.

  A second kick struck his jaw.

  The Rotavarian disappeared over the edge.

  Dazed, Justus jumped up and hurdled over the roof onto a lower ledge after the man, landing on top of him with a thud. Both landed face down on the concrete. The journal fell from the Rotavarian’s hands. Justus stretched out, but he was too late. It slid down the steep side of the building and became caught in a grate at the verge.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done!’ cried the Rotavarian, picking himself up. ‘What right do you have?!’

  ‘I’m a captain!’

  ‘I’m a chief!’ he shot back.

  ‘Step back then, your highness,’ Justus said, bowing. ‘I’ll get it!’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ the chief yelled, bounding in front of him.

  The Captain swung a well-aimed punch which made contact with the right side of his face. His opponent hadn’t been quick enough for that, but for the second he was. Justus leaned forward with another swing and the man ducked, bringing his knee up into his rival’s chest with a solid blow.

  Justus fell winded to the ground.

  The chief went for the journal, but was forced to turn as a beefy-looking Crilshan landed before him. He kicked the dark-eyed man in the chest and forced him over the side of the building.

  Justus wiped the blood from his lip. Realising he had no choice but to return with the diary, he forced himself to block out the pain and focus. As his enemy’s back was turned, he swung his legs out and tripped the chief, sending him smashing, head first, into the wall with a more-than-cringe-worthy thud.

  He reached for his belt, removed and fixed a high-intensity cable to the exterior window behind him, and rapidly cast several grenades over the rim of the roof. Taking one last look at his fallen foe, who in turn looked up at him from the ground, Justus bounded down the slope and threw himself off the edge.

  * * *

  Chief Aleksey Vasily watched in despair as Antal Justus disappeared over the edge clutching Mokrikov’s diary. He leaned over to see the captain freefall the entire length of the building before triggering the rope’s safety response. At that moment, from the base of the building, a thunderous explosion resonated throughout the structure and plumes of smoke and flame rose high above the ground. Justus disappeared.

  He’d got away. There was nothing he could do now.

  As a torrent of bullets from above burst in his direction, the Chief slammed through the window behind him and disappeared inside. He had not obtained what he’d come for, but Aleksey Vasily, Chief of the Rotavarian Defence Force, was alive, free, and ready to fight for his world. There w
as much he had to do, and making his way down through the building and out into the street below, he ran for hiding. Now the battle would begin.

  As he raced from the quarter now crumbling, ablaze, and smoking, he ran into the shadows, remembering the small piece of paper that had fallen from the diary. He pulled it out of his boot and smoothed it out to find that it was a letter, and on the outside appeared one word marked in Mokrikov’s majestic, looping script . . .

  . . . Berenguer.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE WIND BLEW wild and sharp that morning on the outskirts of Kondogopas. Neither the Accentaurian nor the Accentauriban sun had yet surfaced and Justus marched back toward the Flux, heaving his aching back and breathing through nostalgic sighs. The return journey had given him, if anything, too much time to think.

  He had left the silver diary exactly where he’d been told; Lesper would no doubt have it by now. He had already given Justus a time for leaving, but held back the fine point of where they’d be leaving from. He knew Lesper had a crew and a ship of his own, ready to proceed to their destination—wherever that was—but he still wasn’t convinced he could be trusted.

  Still replaying the night’s events over and over, he approached the Flux from behind. The rear port was still unlocked. He’d only gone for a drink, hoping to clear his head, and once again he’d somehow wound up breaking into an official’s quarters, stealing an object worth nothing to him, and, rather more auspiciously, taking out a few Crilshans along the way. All in all, not a bad night.

  But it was the offer Lesper had presented which sent his mind in a spin. A chance to leave it all behind: the nightmares, the memory, the risk—

  ‘And just where’ve you been?’ Adra Dimal asked, hanging from the port as he passed beneath, and dropping behind him.

  Justus turned. ‘Can’t a captain go for a drink when he feels like it?’

  ‘We both know that’s not why you took off,’ she said. ‘Get into a fight, did ‘ya? Kill anyone?’

  He shrugged. ‘No one that didn’t deserve it.’

  His co-pilot breathed out. ‘And if you were captured, or killed, or worse, brought them back here? You could’ve drawn attention and got us all caught!’